


Blind

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blindness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's been pretty distracted lately, and one oversight will have a consequence he hasn't anticipated. Initially he's frightened by the dark, until it helps him to see.





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Matter of Great Importance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124825) by [ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish). 



> I just read [this](https://archiveofourown.org/series/185429) series of Mystrade one shots about the boys discovering each other wears glasses. Loved each and every one, and now I have another little kink to explore. This started as one of those but ended up a little differently. Thanks to ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade) for the inspiration.

Greg swiped at his eyes then swore to himself. He wasn’t meant to do that. All of him was tired, courtesy of the slew of late nights finishing up this case (thanks Sherlock, for going out without backup and requiring hours and hours of frantic searching). It was his eyes that were the worst, though. They were always sandy after a few nights short of sleep, and he always rubbed at them, knowing the relief would be temporary. Only catching up on his sleep would ease the discomfort. Sighing, he refocussed on the scene before him – literally, as his eyes were a little blurry too. Another side effect of too little sleep, he grouched to himself.

When Greg finally stumbled home, scene wrapped up and only the paperwork awaiting him, he was so tired he curled up on the couch without even taking his shoes off. His coat was warm and nothing crossed his mind as he sank gratefully into sleep.

+++

Waking up was not the usual experience. Greg could tell without even opening his eyes that he’d crashed out on the couch again; his neck was wrenched and he could feel his shoes still on his feet. God, but he’d been knackered. Stretching, keeping his eyes closed still against the light he could already sense, Greg sat up. He sighed to himself, pulling his phone out as a force of habit to check the time.

His eyes wouldn’t open.

What?

Trying again, Greg could not physically open his eyes. It felt like they were glued shut, the lashes stuck together. He rolled his eyes around in their sockets, only half believing this was happening. He grimaced – it felt like he’d gotten something in his eye, a grain of sand or something. Both eyes, actually.

He reached his hands up, felt along the seam between upper and lower lid – there was definitely something there, some kind of adhesive. What the hell was going on? Taking a deep breath to quell his panic, Greg stood up, putting his phone back in his pocket and shuffling slowly towards the bathroom. He groped along the wall, cursing the new flat and its unfamiliar distances. At least he’d stacked the boxes in the spare room where he was unlikely to trip over them.

Feeling around the doorjamb, Greg ran his fingers over the wall looking for the light switch. Even though he couldn’t see right now, it felt weird to come into the room without switching on the light. Hopefully he’d be able to see again in a moment anyway.

Hands out before him, Greg slid his shoe over the floor until it stopped against the kickboard of the cabinet. The taps were in the usual place – with any luck a wash would dislodge whatever the hell had stuck his eyes closed. He started with some water, pulling gently at the crusted mess, wincing as a few eyelashes came with it. Progress was slow, so Greg took a small amount of soap and continued, hoping he could keep the soap out of his eyes – that would definitely exacerbate the irritation.

After a few minutes of gentle tugging and rinsing his fingers, Greg couldn’t feel anything else unusual on his eyes. Taking a deep breath he tried opening his eyes.

The upper lids moved slowly, but they’d barely cracked a gap before he slammed his eyes closed again. That was the brightest light he’d ever seen in his life. Now that he was aware of it, the glow penetrating the thin membrane of his eyelid was even too much. Clumsily Greg fumbled back to turn off the light, making the only illumination the lamp he’d never turned off the previous evening before passing out. He knew from experience the light would be dim now, almost like a nightlight, far less likely to hurt his eyes. Another deep breath, shunt away the panicking thoughts about what might be causing this, and he tried again to open his eyes.

More success this time – he managed to open his eyes far enough to show the sink and his hands, braced against the cold porcelain. The light was still too strong. He could feel it pulsing through his optic nerve, pressing fiery fingers against his brain. Not only that, the image he could see was blurry, far blurrier than….

“Oh,” Greg said, the sound completely unintentional. His new contact lenses. The ones he’d decided on because, already self-conscious about looking older than his age, he’d wanted to avoid glasses for as long as possible.

Closing his eyes so he could concentrate, Greg tried to remember what the optometrist had told him about changing them, and then how often he actually had changed them in the last few days. The numbers did not match up, and the result was clear – he’d worn them too long, and now he had some sort of horrendous eye infection. Greg groaned to himself, partly in pain, partly in self-recrimination. He should have chosen the glasses – why did he think he could remember to take care of something like contact lenses? Well first thing first, the lenses had to come out.

Wincing, he opened one eye, bracing against the throb of pain from the dim light and the discomfort of opening his eye so far. Carefully, Greg removed the lens and binned it, then repeated on the other eye. It felt about the same, but surely it was better to have removed them. Now what, though? Eyes pressing uncomfortably closed, Greg tried to think. He certainly couldn’t drive, but he was sure he needed advice at the very least, but more likely, medical attention.

John.

Thrusting one hand in his pocket again, Greg took out his phone. Why, oh why had he not set up the voice dialling, he thought to himself. This was going to be tricky.

It was worse than tricky. He used his phone all the time, yet obviously didn’t pay any attention to the location of the buttons or the layout of the screen.

Screwing up his eyes (then releasing them when a burst of pain shot though them), he carefully unlocked the screen, grateful he’d been too lazy to figure out how to get rid of the annoying, ‘hello!’ sound. Right now it was the only indication he’d done it right.

Now, to find John’s phone number.

Greg stopped for a moment, racking his brains for the layout of his contacts list. How would he ever find John without being able to see the screen?

Opening his eyes, the pain and blurry image forced him to close them again before he could focus on anything. He really was blind, at least from a functional perspective.

Blind. A wave of panic overcame him at the idea, and he dropped his phone.

Gasping, Greg dropped to his knees, banging his head on the shower screen as he bent forward. The unexpected blow caused him to keel sideways, the inability to judge distance to the ground resulting in his cradling his head, bracing for the impact. When he had landed, Greg took stock – a very sore spot on his forehead but otherwise okay. Damn this new flat, he thought.

“DAMN IT!” he shouted, venting some of his frustration. When there was no response, he nodded. Right. Nobody was going to get him out of this mess but him. He had the day off, so unless he wanted to wait another 24 hours for someone to come looking for him, he had to help himself.

Sweeping one hand systematically along the floor, Greg found his phone. Patiently, he unlocked it again, then thought carefully about the contacts list. There was a recently called page, he remembered. If he could get there, then hit any number, it would connect him with someone he knew. That was a start, even if it was his bitch of a sister. Worst case, she’d hang up on him and he could try again, he thought wryly.

Taking a deep breath (always a good start, he coached himself), Greg pressed his finger to what he hoped was the right spot on the screen to open the telephone icon. The recent call list was always the first screen, so Greg moved his finger to the top of the screen, sent a quick prayer out to the universe and pressed. He had no way of knowing what was happening, so he lifted the phone to his ear – if there was a call going through, he would hear the ringing.

Briiiiing. Briiiiing.

“Yes,” he breathed, just as a voice picked up at the other end.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft Holmes’ voice answered. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mycroft?” Greg blurted. Probably not his first choice, but he could certainly think of several worse options.

“You did call me, Detective Insp-“

“I need help, Mycroft.” Greg cut him off, knowing it was rude but not caring. He was so relieved to have gotten through to somebody, somebody that could help him, he spoke without thinking. “I can’t see. I need…can you get John and come?”

Mycroft’s voice rarely gave away any emotion unless he wanted it to, but Greg could hear surprise in the response. “You can’t _see_?”

At any other time Greg would have pointed out that Mycroft was making Greg repeat himself, something he abhorred when Greg did it to him. Now was not the time, however.

“Do you think I could explain when you get here?” Greg said, fighting to hold himself together. The fear he’d felt since waking, locked in the darkness that had frightened him so as a child, had started to seep past the edges of his defence, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose it over the phone to Mycroft Holmes.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, the self-reprimand evident in his voice. “John and I will be at your flat in less than half an hour.” He paused, then added, “If you are able to unlock the door we will knock, however I could arrange a discreet forced entry, with your permission…”

“I’ll see what I can do while I wait,” Greg said, weak with relief. Help was coming. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

“We will be with you presently, Gregory.” Mycroft replied.

Greg’s newly sensitive ears picked up another unusual emotion in this last phrase, but it wasn’t until he had made his way slowly and carefully to the front door that he realised Mycroft had just called him Gregory for the first time.

Leaning against the front door, Greg felt in his pocket for his keys. Not there. He must have done something with them when he’d let himself in last night – but where were they? In theory they should go on the hook by the door – nothing. There was a small table too, but a careful exploration of its surface came up empty.

With nothing else to do while he waited, Greg did a slow tour of the living areas, checking the coffee table, couch and kitchen bench. Whatever he did with his keys, it was something weird, he thought. They might be in the fridge, or next to the loo or something, but by now he didn’t care. He was exhausted from the effort of moving so carefully, the constant fear of running into something, the pain in his eyes, not to mention the ongoing panic he was barely holding back about the longevity of this condition.

“Gregory?” A knock on his door. Greg stood up, having slumped against the wall as he waited.

“I’m here. Can’t find my keys,” Greg called, grateful to hear Mycroft on the other side of the door.

“Entry will not be a problem.”

As Greg frowned, he heard the door open, the jangle of keys making it evident he had left them in his door all night.

“We have your keys,” Mycroft told him, the shifting sound telling Greg where they were. “I am hanging them on the hook by the door."

“Hi Greg, it’s John.” Another voice, a little lower, from his left.

“Hi.” Greg turned towards the voice, a flush bursting across his face as he heard the concern in his friend’s voice.

“I’ve brought my stuff, can I take a look at your eyes?” John asked. When Greg nodded, John added, “Do you want to come and sit on the sofa? I can help you over if you want.”

“I can get there, thanks,” Greg replied, turning and shuffling into the flat. Before he got too far Greg shed his coat, draping it over his arm. He stumbled near the sofa, catching himself on the arm before sinking into the cushion, dropping his coat behind him over the back of the sofa.

“I’m just going to look at your eyes, okay?” John said, his professional, calm tone doing it’s magic to calm Greg. He hadn’t heard a thing from Mycroft since they’d entered the flat and he wondered if the other man had let John in and then left.

“You still around, Mycroft?” Greg asked, trying to put a joking tone into the serious question.

“I am here,” Mycroft replied from somewhere near the kitchen. “Just giving John room to do his work.”

As he spoke, John’s fingers tilted Greg’s chin up. He murmured, “Can you open your eyes at all?” Greg explained how he’d woken up, dislodged the crust holding his eyes together and the subsequent pain against the light.

“Photophobia is common with conjunctivitis, though I haven’t seen it this bad in a long time.” John said. “I do need to have a quick look at each eye, Greg, just to check there’s not actually something in there physically irritating the lining of the eye. I need some light so I can see. This won’t be a lot of fun, I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” Greg said tightly. He gritted his teeth as John’s gloved hands looked briefly in each of his eyes; the light was stabbing burning pain again, and he was relieved when it was over.

“Definitely conjunctivitis,” John declared. Greg heard him pulling off his gloves. “They must have been sore for a few days to get this bad though. You didn’t notice?”

Greg felt himself shrug in response. “Late nights, plus I realised this morning I left my contact lenses in too long. Probably didn’t help.”

“Definitely not,” John said. “Look, it’s most likely bacterial, so I’ll write you a script for these eye drops. You’ll be off work at least a few days, don’t drive until your vision is completely back to normal.”

“Thanks,” Greg said.

“Take some ibuprofen, too, it’ll help with the swelling,” John advised him.

“I will have that script filled and brought here within the hour,” Mycroft said, and the crinkle of paper and shift of expensive fabric told Greg that Mycroft had stepped forward and accepted the paper from John.

The wave of air, shifted with Mycroft’s motion, had also brought a different scent. John’s subtle woodsy aftershave had surrounded Greg since he had sat close to examine his eyes, but this was richer, spicier; Mycroft’s scent. Greg had never noticed it before, but he had also never been blind in Mycroft’s presence before. Interesting how his other senses were so much more important now. Greg brought one hand up, shading his eyes from the bright glow coming through his eyelids.

“Is the light sensitivity bad?” John was asking, and Greg nodded – even the light in his living room, which was never that bright, was pressing on his eyes. “I can fasten some eye patches if you like,” John offered. “It will block a lot of the light and make it easier for your eyes to rest.”

Ignoring how he would look in such an arrangement, Greg agreed, sitting still while John carefully pressed adhesive tape to his face. It was much better, he had to admit. “What now?” Greg asked John.

“Well I have to go back to work,” John said regretfully. “Mycroft pulled me off my shift to come here. I can drop back in after, though? Have you got some food in?” Greg could hear the concern in John’s voice. The food thing had not even crossed his mind, though now he was starving, of course. How would he manage that? And what if he put the eye drops down and forgot where they were? Or couldn’t find them, or something?

“My car will take you back to work, John,” Mycroft’s voice joined the conversation once again. He was back on the other side of the room, judging by the location of his voice. “I will remain here with Gregory for the time being and ensure he has everything he needs.”

“Really?” John and Greg spoke at the same time. Greg would have turned to John and laughed, but he couldn’t see him.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, ignoring the humour completely.

“Um, okay,” John replied, his voice different as he turned his head, presumably to talk to Mycroft. When he spun back to address Greg, the words were clearer and closer again. “You’ll start feeling better after eight hours or so of the drops. I’ll call you tonight, then.”

“No texting, I can’t read it,” Greg reminded him. “Oh, can you call the station, let them know I’ll be out a few days? Probably bear more weight coming from you, anyway.”

“No problem.” Greg felt a hand settle briefly on his shoulder as John made his farewell.

“Thanks, mate,” Greg said, hoping his sincerity came through in his voice. He felt John stand up, heard the click as his medical bag was secured closed.

“Anytime,” John said, before Greg heard him pace up the corridor and out the door.

The room was silent except for another body breathing. “Mycroft?” Greg said finally. “You can sit down, if you like. I mean, you don’t even have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ll be fine.”

There was no response, but Greg could track Mycroft as his suit shifted against itself. He settled in the armchair, Greg could hear.

A sudden suspicion came over Greg. “You just gave me a look with your eyebrows, didn’t you? But it didn’t work because I can’t see it.” The idea was amusing, one of the first things today; Greg relaxed into the grin it generated, enjoying the lame little joke.

“My eyebrows will be lost on you for the moment, that’s true,” Mycroft agreed mildly.

“So, you’re just going to sit here with me until…when?” Greg asked. He felt like he should be offering tea or something, which was ridiculous for a number of reasons.

“Not at all, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, and the sound shifted as Mycroft stood up. “I am going to make tea.”

Greg smiled at the dignified tone, sitting back on the couch as he listened to the sounds of Mycroft Holmes in his kitchen making tea. When the footsteps came closer, Greg sat up, holding very still in case there was hot tea en route to somewhere and he knocked it.

“Your tea is on the coffee table,” Mycroft said quietly, “extend your right hand and it will be directly in front, handle to the right. There are two ibuprofen tablets to the left of the mug.”

Impressed, Greg did as he was bidden and found the tablets exactly as Mycroft had described, next to his mug.

“Thank you,” Greg said in the general direction of the seat. They sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the tea. Greg swallowed the ibuprofen, grateful Mycroft had been there to make sure he wasn’t taking tic taks or something by accident. His tea was perfect, just the right amount of milk.

“I missed the milk,” Greg blurted, then blushed at the silly comment. Out of context it sounded stupid, he thought.

To his surprise, Mycroft replied, “You did. But not forever.”

“How did you…” Greg asked.

“I deduced you were talking about watching the milk swirl into the tea,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated and said, “It is an enjoyable moment in the ritual of tea making.”

Greg nodded automatically. “I love watching it.”

“So do I,” Mycroft replied. He paused as though deciding whether or not to speak, before saying, “When your vision clears, you can make me tea and watch the milk in mine. It would only be fair.”

Greg couldn’t help grinning at the offer of reciprocity. “Deal,” he said. The casual assumption that his vision would return made him feel a lot better. Or perhaps it was the offer to take tea again with Mycroft.

“So,” he said, shifting to toe off his shoes, “I hope the free world isn’t going to fall because you’re spending a few hours here.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft replied. “It would simply be a few ministers with their noses out of joint because our meeting will be rescheduled.”

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Greg listened as Mycroft answered it with a few words before returning, the rustle of a paper bag giving away their visitor.

“Your medication,” Mycroft told him.

“Okay,” Greg replied, uncertain why his heart was now beating faster. “Well hand it over, better start as soon as possible.”

There was no sound of sliding fabric, which meant that Mycroft hadn’t moved. “What?” Greg asked.

“Are you sure you will be able to administer these yourself?” Mycroft asked. “Eye drops can be difficult.”

“I think I can manage, thanks,” Greg replied, holding out his hand. Mycroft gave him the packet. Greg could feel Mycroft watching as he fumbled the packet open. “Will you read the instructions, please?”

There was a pause as the pages were shaken out – Greg could picture Mycroft reading the doubtless tiny script, discarding unimportant details.

“Basically…don’t drink them, add two drops to the inner eye and blink to distribute over the surface of the eye. Repeat every two hours,” Mycroft summarised finally.

Greg nodded. “Okay,” he said, opening the bottle. He pulled up the tape on one side, resting the eyepatch on his tilted back forehead. Opening that eye a little, Greg aimed the nozzle for his inner eye and felt a wet drop land on his eyebrow. The next hit his cheek and when he inhaled the one which slid up his nose, he conceded defeat.

“I can’t do this,” hadmitted, hating the weakness with all his being.

“Shall I…” Mycroft asked, and Greg dropped his head in defeat, nodded once. He heard the quiet sound of Mycroft stand up, then felt the sofa shift as he settled next to him.

“You hold the bottle,” Mycroft said, his voice startlingly close, “I will guide your hand.”

Greg nodded, pulling his mind away from its awareness of Mycroft’s closeness (heat, scent, awareness, and the feel of air flow from his mouth as he spoke) and tilted his head back again, lifting his hand and waiting. Tentative fingers slid over his own, guiding his hand with gentle pressure.

“There,” Mycroft said, and the drops landed exactly in the right spot.

Greg blinked hard, but the drops ran down his face instead. “Shit,” he swore.

“If you tilt your head slightly gravity will work for you,” Mycroft offered.

Greg nodded, lifting his hand once again. Mycroft’s hand pressed against his again, and when he stopped Greg squeezed the bottle a little. Before he could move, the same fingers slid down the back of his hand, pressing up under his chin so his head tilted and the drops moved towards the outer edge of his eye, as they should.

“Done,” Greg said explosively, the anxiety about the task disappearing in a whirl of relief. “Thank you.”

“Other side?” Mycroft replied.

Greg nodded. Before he could put the bottle down to fix his patches, gentle fingers were doing it for him – lifting the second patch, then lowering the first carefully, one finger pressing the tape back against his skin.

Did the touch linger longer than necessary? Greg couldn’t tell if it was reality or wishful thinking – perhaps his lack of vision was making him forget the impersonal face of Mycroft Holmes. There was no way he’d be interested in anything more than their working relationship. Although, this was a long way outside that definition…

Greg concentrated on his drops, getting the second eye on the first try, albeit with Mycroft’s help.

“I will put these on the kitchen bench,” Mycroft said. Greg nodded – he’d need to know for the next dose. “The ibuprofen is also on the bench – two every four hours, no longer.”

“Thank you for this, Mycroft,” Greg said. He could sense Mycroft’s hesitation, deciding where to sit. Greg decided to take a chance. “Will you sit beside me?” he asked. The tremor in his voice was real when he added, “I’m not a big fan of the dark.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied immediately. His presence was announced by a dozen details Greg probably wouldn’t have noticed had his eyes been open; he wondered if there was something there that he had to be blind to be able to see. The clever turn of phrase made him smile to himself.

“Why are you smiling?” Mycroft asked, seating himself beside Greg.

“I don’t know,” Greg answered honestly, turning towards the voice. “This has hardly been my best morning, overall. And yet…” he trailed off deliberately, wondering if Mycroft would pursue the end of the sentence.

“And yet?” Mycroft asked, right on cue.

“And yet I’ve ended up sitting here, so it hasn’t been all bad.” Now was the time he wished he could see; there was no way of knowing what expression was on Mycroft’s face, or if he was blushing. There were drawbacks, then.

“I am sure your confinement will be short lived,” Mycroft said. In the brief pause, Mycroft said, “I was not aware you needed glasses, Gregory.”

“I don’t. Well, I didn’t. The contact lenses are new. Glasses I’ve had for a while, but…” he shrugged. “Not sure I need something else to make me look old.” It was easier to say in the dark, he thought to himself.

“I disagree,” Mycroft replied quietly. “I find glasses generally enhance the appeal of an already attractive face.”

When silence fell between them, Greg’s mind raced. That was certainly…unexpected. Words aside though, Mycroft’s actions were unexpected. He could only think of one reason that Mycroft would have dropped everything – he’d bet it was more important than some ministers wanting to chat – to come and help Greg. And he’d been calling him Gregory. Coupled with Greg’s own awareness of Mycroft, and the odd tones of voice he’d detected, there was only one conclusion. The main question then became – had Mycroft admitted it to himself or not?

“Without meaning to be rude, Mycroft,” Greg asked cautiously, “why exactly are you here?”

Listening carefully, Greg heard the sharp intake of breath at the question. Two carefully measured breaths followed. “What do you mean?”

“You could have come to check I was okay then hired someone, a qualified nurse or doctor to come and sit with me. Instead you are here, making tea, helping me with my drops. And I want to be able to read your face, but I never can anyway, and I can’t see. So, why are you here?” Greg sat back, hoping he had pushed just hard enough for a result.

“I am here because you called me.” Mycroft said carefully. “You asked for my help.”

Greg blinked. “I do that all the time.”

“With Sherlock. You ask for my help with Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out before his voice became quieter, “but not for yourself.”

“So it’s about me,” Greg asked, his heart beating faster as they came closer to the crux of the matter. He could hear Mycroft’s breathing now, not faster but slightly harsher, as though it was taking more effort to control it.

On an impulse, Greg reached out to Mycroft, aiming for his knee lest there be any embarrassing accidental groping. He found one knee and trailed the fingers up the rough wool fabric, not teasing but searching; Mycroft’s breathing stuttered as Greg found a hand, then an arm, tracking up further to Mycroft’s neck. A little fumbling again (so many layers – jacket, collar with tie, the smooth warmth of skin) and Greg was pressing his fingers into Mycroft’s carotid artery, feeling for the pulse that wouldn’t lie.

“I can hear you breathing,” Greg said quietly. “It wasn’t any faster or slower, but I could hear you controlling it. This is harder to hide though, isn’t it?” He could feel it now, the rapid patter of Mycroft’s racing heart. It matched his own, thudding against his chest.

“None of this is within my control, Gregory.m,” Mycroft whispered. The truth and vulnerability of his statement swirled around Greg as he considered the words.

“Is that…does that make it a bad thing, then?” Greg asked carefully. His hand was still on Mycroft’s neck, the pulse still thudding fast against his fingers. Relaxing his hand, Greg allowed his palm to rest against the soft skin covering a traitorous heartbeat. The next breath was shuddering, and the Adam’s apple under the heel of his hand bobbed as Mycroft swallowed hard.

“Not bad,” Mycroft replied, his voice still barely a whisper. “Just…more difficult to navigate.”

“Maybe you need some help,” Greg said, gathering his courage. His hand slid slowly, giving Mycroft time to adjust and defer, if he wished. Fingers mapped the soft underside of a smooth jaw, the round hardness of a jawbone.

Greg’s fingers traced the topography up towards Mycroft’s ear, his palm settling along Mycroft’s jaw. His mind supplied a whirl of ideas about what Greg might see if he could – wide open eyes, parted lips, flushed cheeks.

Greg could hear Mycroft’s breathing growing heavier and he reached his other hand out, wanting more contact, more information about Mycroft in this moment.

His fingers reached blindly, settling on a jacket pocket – soft bunch of fabric (pocket square – what colour was it today?), the same roughness of suit jacket and, as he pressed harder with his whole hand, a chest expanding and contracting in time with the sound of rasping breath.

Taking a deep breath of his own, Greg maneuverered his thumb around the Mycroft’s chin, the slight dimple in the middle, the perfect smoothness (must have shaved very recently, stubble would probably be reddish should it be allowed to grow). When the pad of his thumb reached the softer skin that marked the edge of Mycroft’s lip, the feel of an unsteady exhalation made Greg’s breath catch.

“Is this…I can’t see you,” Greg said, his voice so quiet it was a whisper. He knew from the drops that his awareness of the exact location of his hands was not that reliable; the last thing he wanted to do was accidentally head-butt Mycroft or something.

Moving slowly, Greg leaned forward, hoping he would make some approximation of a kiss without hurting either of them. When he felt Mycroft moving closer too, Greg felt his chest falter, the relief palpable. _It’s not just me_.

Trusting Mycroft to guide him, Greg slid his thumb out of the way, tracing the shape of that soft, open mouth. He was slightly unprepared when Mycroft’s nose brushed his, the pause as warm breath rushed across his face perhaps a moment of warning before the anticipation was finally over, the tingle of his lips soothed by the touch of Mycroft’s soft mouth.

Greg had thought he would be overwhelmed by the new sensations, but he’d forgotten one key point – his eyes were usually closed during a kiss anyway. The unfamiliarity was because it was Mycroft; the feel of his mouth, soft and pliable with trembling muscles underneath. Fingers resting suddenly on his knee, five points of pressure burning through trousers and into his skin. The sounds as Mycroft reacted to his touch, breathy little gasps and moans, whines that made Greg want to climb into his lap and never leave again.

Greg slid his hand around Mycroft’s skull, cupping the back of his head, short hairs tickling his hand (what colour were they? Some deliciously ginger variation, no doubt). Greg wondered what Mycroft’s skin looked like close up. He had the complexion of the true ginger, so there was probably a riot of freckles to be found, if he had the leisure to find out.

The idea made him groan deep in his throat, a sudden rumble that made Mycroft startle, before his fingers gripped Greg’s knee tighter, his mouth opening to allow his tongue to trace a tentative line along Greg’s inner lip. The feel of it, the possibilities it hinted at, tore another sound from his throat, and the overwhelming sense of it made him pull back, gasping. He could feel Mycroft’s breath on his face, still – they were close, then.

“That…wow,” Greg managed, wanting Mycroft to be sure he wasn’t regretting anything.

“Indeed,” came Mycroft’s strangled whisper.

With none of the usual nonverbal cues to help him, Greg ventured, “Okay?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft replied, still out of breath. Greg listened to their breathing slow, hands still glue to each other for the long moments of cocooned silence.

“Can’t wait until I can see you,” Greg murmured, thumb brushing over Mycroft’s cheek. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking like this.”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft replied, “I think you saw more like this than either of us with our eyes open.”

It was so similar to what had occurred to Greg earlier, he couldn’t help grinning. “True,” he said. His eyes may be sore and useless, but there was some clever pun in there about today having ‘opened his eyes’ to new possibilities. He’d have to work on it, sometime when he could watch Mycroft’s eyes roll in resignation at his terrible joke.


End file.
